


Company

by accrues



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Australia, Gen, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 05:00:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17822381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accrues/pseuds/accrues
Summary: When he’d seen the sign -experienced sailors needed, casual hours- he’d hesitated.Bucky Barnes runs away to the other side of the world, gets a job, and finds some closure.Sam just wants a vacation, and Steve will follow Bucky anywhere.aka lets go to Australia, the fic.





	1. For the Company

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to Erya for the cheerlead and beta.

_I want the jump but not the height_  
_Let me fall but catch me mid flight_  
_I swam with sharks and beasts of the sea_  
_Only went down for the company_  
_Went down for the company_  
Kimbra, _The Build Up_

It isn’t silent under the water. Bucky thought it would be, at first. He’d anticipated the pressured depths to be like sensory deprivation, a fear to face like the tank, but it is completely different.

When he’d seen the sign - _experienced sailors needed, casual hours_ \- he’d hesitated. He knew how to sail, _somehow_ , but it was one of those things he just knew, from a brief touch in his mind, that Hydra had put there, not something he’d learned on his own.

But it was a job, it was a new experience, an opportunity to do something with his hands, to steer and work and make a life that had nothing to do with death or war.

Australia is easier than America, no flashing red-white-blue everywhere, despite the national flag. They bury their nationality like a secret, only flying it where governments deal. The Avengers are famous here, sure, but in more of a wry, amused way. More t-shirts sport Thor ( _Thor is our Aus-guardian_ and _Thor? More like th-woah_ ) than Captain America. It makes the edges less sharp, the glass easier to handle.

The skipper’s name is Steve, but after the initial flinch Bucky had found it easy enough to smile and enjoy Steve’s company. With boats of 51 and 78 feet, it’s easy enough to hide away when he needs to regain his composure.

And under the water it is… loud. Not just the sounds, though the rasping of air as it sucked into the mask was distracting for the first few moments, but the colours of the Great Barrier Reef, and the jolts of wrongness that he feels from twenty feet below the surface.

Loud enough that the thoughts in his head disappear, that the pressure that builds behind his eyes levels out to envelop his entire body like a glove, like being _held_.

It’s enough, somehow, to stop him from spinning apart.

-

He helps the catamaran make dock with Steve calling orders, and wearily instructs the tourists for that day to make their way inside the terminal. The Port Douglas terminal is bright white, washed yearly and made to sparkle in a way no building can consistently stay without work. The floating marina is brown wood, burning hot underneath his flipflops, and he hangs back a little from the crowd as the sunburnt group makes their way indoors. The marina smells like fish and dried seawater, he can taste the seasalt on his tongue, and it feels like everything is quiet, despite the chatter and the baking sun.

It’s only when he hears a throat clear that he realises someone’s been watching him, makes him startle so badly that he almost physically flinches, and then he’s looking up into the eyes of the Falcon.

‘Jesus,’ he says softly, and then he puts his hands behind his head.

‘Easy,’ the Falcon says, shaking his own head and reaching a hand out to touch - almost - before pulling it back away again. ‘No need for that.’

Bucky frowns, but shifts his hands down awkwardly, tapping the fingers of his right hand against his hip when they finally rest at his sides. ‘I-’ he glances around, noting the group from today’s tour finally slipping inside the terminal, one or two drifting off to dash into the brewery to grab a coffee. ‘Steve?’

The Falcon shakes his head, a wry smile on his face. ‘Nah man, just me. Vacation, y’know?’

Bucky looks at him skeptically, and the Falcon just laughs. ‘Why don’t we go inside, huh? You got a job to do, I’m just holding you up.’

‘You have a right,’ Bucky says stiltedly, the most words he’s said in hours - he keeps to himself, out there on the ocean - and the Falcon shakes his head. 

‘Don’t think anyone’s got a right to make you do anything,’ the Falcon says, tone oddly sad, and he turns, places his back to Bucky, and makes his way over to the terminal.

Well.

Bucky collects himself, swallows once and checks that his sailing gloves are still covering both hands, his sweatshirt tugged down over their edges, and follows.

It doesn’t take long to get all the tourists onto their respective transports, back to Cairns, or Trinity Beach, or Cape Trib, any number of the other resort and tiki hotels. The terminal echoes with silence once the boats have unloaded, cavernous and empty, save for the few staff left behind, but the Falcon just sits on one of the benches that runs along the length. Bucky locks the office door behind him as he exits into the hall, and cocks his head expectantly at the figure. Slowly, the Falcon draws his head up from where he’s been peering at his screen, and asks ‘anywhere around here got a decent bite to eat?’

They go to the brewery because it’s mere feet from where they’re standing - and the food isn’t bad - and watch the evening boats set up for their sunset cruises. Bucky taps his finger against the tabletop, _tah-tah-tah_ of gloved digits against wood, and the Falcon watches him with absent interest.

‘So you sail?’ he asks finally, and Bucky looks up to meet his eyes before shrugging one shoulder (his right), and stilling his hand. 

‘Hydra put a lot inside me,’ he says with careful indifference. ‘Thought I may as well use some of the better stuff.’

‘Seems sensible enough to me,’ the Falcon says evenly.

‘Why haven’t you-’ Bucky cuts himself off, gulping with the anxiety that ratchets up his spine. He doesn’t _want_ to be a prisoner again, has spent these last few years gloriously free from bindings, but he has to ask the question before the sword falls on his head.

‘Called ASIO? Interpol? The AFP?’ 

Bucky laughs softly, takes a pull from his beer. ‘Yeah.’

‘I don’t want that,’ the Falcon shakes his head and drains the rest of his own drink. ‘Damn these Aussies put the liquor in.’

Bucky’s laugh repeats itself, more laughter than he’s exhaled in days. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘But you know me.’ The sentence seems oddly tangential, but Bucky nods agreement.

‘Falcon. You were with Black Widow and Ste-’ his voice breaks off at the end of the sentence. ‘I remember you. I-’ he swallows. ‘I hurt you. I’m sorry.’

‘Hey,’ the Falcon leans in, and Bucky flinches back a little, causing a flicker of something to cross the other man’s face. ‘We found that Hydra vault in DC. We found the files. You got nothing to be sorry for.’ He hesitates. ‘‘Cept maybe pulling the goddamn steering wheel from under my hands. You have no idea how terrifying _that_ was.’

Bucky bites at his lip and looks down at the cockles drowning in butter sauce at his hands.

‘And it’s Sam,’ the Falcon says. ‘Don’t know about Natasha, but I want you to call me Sam.’

‘Okay, Sam,’ he hesitates. ‘Bucky. I- I mean, I’m.’

‘I know,’ Sam says, oddly gentle. ‘Yeah, man. I know.’

They finish their dinner in silence.

-

Bucky lives in a shared Queenslander just out of Cairns’s CBD when he isn’t staying on the boat. They stay on their own boat half the time, so it’s a scenario that works out oddly well, passing like ships in the night and barely seeing each other. They leave each other notes when they leave for cruises, little jokes and comments about the house, and Bucky picks the latest up once he clears the house of any unwanted intruders.

Sam follows him with an amused wariness, like Bucky’s caution is unwarranted. It’s vaguely irritating, that irreverence, but Bucky sets it aside alongside the note. He puts his backpack down beside the kitchen counter, and moves to pour himself a glass of water out of the tap, hesitating just long enough to select a second glass and fill that one as well.

‘Have you told Steve?’ He sets the glass in front of Sam, then settles himself into a stool at the counter.

They hadn’t talked during the hour long drive down the coast, Sam staring out the window at the water until it slowly disappeared into rainforest. 

‘Yeah, man,’ Sam says quietly. ‘He deserves to know you’re safe, don’t you think?’

Bucky shrugs a shoulder noncommittally, heart jackrabbiting at confirmation of what he’d really known this whole time.

‘Gotta be honest,’ Sam continues, ‘I didn’t expect you to be in Far North Queensland, Australia.’

Bucky quirks his lips to the side. ‘I like the heat.’

Sam’s face takes on a knowing look. ‘Yeah, makes sense. And you like sailing?’

Bucky considers it. ‘I like- diving. It’s… beautiful.’

Sam frowns and considers his words for a second, then ‘the mask doesn’t bother you?’

The laugh that rushes out of Bucky is harsher than any previous laugh, like something is bursting inside him.

‘Y’know, it really did,’ he admits after a moment while Sam looks a little unsure of himself. ‘Was a bit of a shock,’ he continues, looking over Sam’s shoulder to one of the tacky faux art prints on the wall. ‘After wearing a mask for seventy years you’d think I’d be used to it.’

Sam just shakes his head. ‘Naw man, makes complete sense. But you don’t mind it?’

‘It’s different,’ Bucky says shortly, bringing his gaze back to the man in front of him. ‘It _helps_ me breathe. That other one…’ he shakes his head. ‘It was like suffocating.’

‘Jesus,’ Sam says simply, and Bucky closes his eyes briefly. 

‘I should get you a bed. There’s a guest room, let me show you.’ He stands up and starts to move toward the back room.

‘Are you sure?’ Sam hesitates. ‘I got a hotel room-’

‘Nah,’ Bucky shakes his head. ‘‘Less you want- I can take you into town.’

‘A bed would be great,’ Sam agrees graciously. He reaches out his hand, like he had on the marina, but this time it lands on Bucky’s wrist. ‘Thank you.’

Bucky just looks away.

-

Sam’s still there in the morning, though Bucky hadn’t really expected otherwise. He himself had spent the night lying awake and waiting for the noises, for the stomp of feet as the AFP descended, or the soft pad of Black Widow’s step as she made her way inside.

The night had been silent, except for the screaming cry of the bush stone-curlews that live nearby. 

‘Steve’s gonna be here in a few hours,’ Sam offers once Bucky has settled himself down at the kitchen counter. ‘I used your pod machine, hope you don’t mind.’

Bucky, cup of cappuccino in his own hand, just shakes his head, ‘s’fine.’ 

‘You gon’ be okay with that?’

Bucky doesn’t pretend to play dumb, but he does need to clarify.

‘With Steve?’ 

Sam pulls away from the counter and crosses to the kitchen sink. ‘Yeah.’

Bucky just laughs, a breath out that barely makes a noise. ‘Who the goddamn hell knows,’ he mutters. ‘Last time I saw him I almost fucking killed him.’

‘Saved his life too,’ Sam acknowledges, before running the hot tap to rinse out his mug. 

Bucky shrugs again, hunching down over his coffee cup. ‘We should go to town, pick up a few things before we go to the airport.’

Sam frowns. ‘You want to go pick him up?’

Bucky raises his eyebrows. ‘Well it’s that or he gets a taxi. I have a car, why the hell wouldn’t I?’

Sam considers that for a moment before shrugging. ‘Mind swinging by my hotel? I left my gear in town.’

So he’s planning on staying. They’ll fit, if barely, if Bucky takes the couch. ‘Sure,’ he says noncomitally before smirking. ‘Where do you superheroes stay, the Shangri-La?’

Sam laughs, a round noise that makes Bucky’s lips twitch. ‘Do I look like I’m made of money? Nah man, some little place a few streets behind the Night Markets.’

‘Great,’ Bucky acknowledges. ‘We can go to Caffiend.’

-

They park on the strip between Caffiend’s storefront and Rusty’s Markets, and Bucky orders them both coconut lattes to drink for when they go to pick up fruit. Cam the barista takes Bucky’s money - blue plastic and two silver coins - and flirts a little, tapping at Bucky’s gloved hand and making a comment about being too hot to handle. They’re right, it’s 90 degrees out, but Bucky curls his hand back and shuffles away to wait for the order before the conversation can go any further. 

‘Making friends?’ Sam asks from where he’s leaning against the wall, poised beside an oil painting of a woman with facial piercings holding a jar of vegemite. Bucky just shrugs, tapping his fingers against his hip rhythmically and listening to the hiss-clunk-clunk of the coffee being made. A woman in the back corner laughs and runs her fingers through her hair, the silver ties on her strappy top clicking together softly. 

When Cam calls out Bucky’s order - ‘coconut lattes for James,’ - he thanks them and dodges their hand as he deftly sticks an orange twenty in the tip jar despite their protests. 

When Sam raises an eyebrow on their way out the door he just shrugs. ‘Hydra money,’ he answers without any more detail and Sam shakes his head. 

‘Why do you have to fight the barista to give him tips?’

‘Them,’ Bucky corrects quickly, then shrugs. ‘Time was I put fiftys in there, and they decided I needed to be stopped. They don’t do tips in this country like- not like America,’ he says finally. ‘Pay a damn adequate minimum wage.’

Bucky steps in front of traffic to cross the street - New York genes come in handy in this town where cars stop and start with no regard for any written law - and waves his free hand at the driver, who gives him sarcastic salute. A bat somewhere in a tree above them makes a shrieking noise, and Sam looks up, alarmed, at the collection of black bodies writhing amongst the green leaves. 

‘Holy shit,’ he exclaims, stopping in the middle of the road to stare, coffee gripped in his right hand as he tips his head up.

‘Move,’ Bucky herds him gently to the other side of the street, only realising as he does it that he’s _touching_ this man, with force, with- 

He has to catch his breath once they’re safely outside the piercing and tattoo parlour next to Rusty’s entrance, flesh hand pressed against the brick to feel the grouted indents through his glove. 

‘Hey,’ Sam says softly, ‘you’re okay, man.’ Bucky shakes his head, taking in long pulls of air, one arm trembling. He sets his coffee down on the ground, then straightens, turning to look at Sam.

‘I touched you,’ Bucky says softly, wonderingly and his stomach _sick_. He doesn’t touch _anyone_. 

‘You saved me - that Hylux almost hit me,’ Sam points out, and Bucky chokes a laugh. 

‘I don’t think cars hit _anyone_ in this city,’ he says with a laugh, shaking his head. ‘I-’

‘It’s okay,’ Sam says, his voice oddly soothing. ‘You can touch me.’

Bucky’s left hand curls into a fist, like he can protect everyone from himself by drawing the weapon as small as possible. 

‘Hey,’ Sam’s hand comes to rest on Bucky’s own balled hand, and Bucky flinches away. ‘Woah,’ he puts his hands up placatingly.

‘Sorry,’ Bucky breathes out a rough exhale. ‘I-’

‘Hey, you can touch,’ Sam reiterates, holding his hand out into Bucky’s space. ‘Here.’

Bucky stares at the hand, brown and warm, and real. He leaves his left fist where it is, tucked protectively at his side, but the right hand reaches out, hesitant, to tap against the fine outline of the bones in Sam’s hand. 

‘There you go,’ Sam says gently, before pulling his hand away to pick up Bucky’s forgotten coffee. ‘Now let’s get some fruit.’

-

They buy papayas and limes, and mangoes and avocados for fifty cents each - Bucky barters with the Asian man selling the fruit when he suggests they cost a full dollar - and pile them into a plastic bag. Bucky even agrees to rambutans and starfruit, but absolutely refuses to get custard apples (which are disgusting) and durian (which is worse). They buy coconut jam from a preserves stand manned by a black French woman with long braided dark hair, and then step out into the street behind to walk to the post office. 

Once Sam has the cellphone charger he needs, they take a lane back out onto Grafton Street to pick up the car and deposit the food, throwing the empty coffee cups into a waste bin. Sam’s hotel is just along the way, parallel to the esplanade, and Bucky pulls a ballcap down over his head while he waits in the kiss-and-drop for Sam to collect his belongings and check out of the hotel early. 

‘Cameras,’ he just says shortly when Sam looks at him quizzically, and then they’re taking the A1 out to the airport. 

‘So you knew I was here,’ Bucky says once they’re past the halfway point, passing sugar cane fields, the hills above them thick with rainforest. Sam raises an eyebrow, and Bucky looks to his left. ‘It’s a full day flight from DC,’ Bucky points out. ‘You told him before you even approached me.’

‘Yeah,’ Sam agrees levelly. ‘Saw you in town three days ago picking up your last cruise. _Hell_ of a shock, I gotta say.’

Bucky laughs wryly, settling his left hand onto the gearstick and tapping his right against the wheel. There’s quiet for a few moments and then Sam opens his mouth again.

‘I only told Steve when it was obvious you-’ Sam bites off his words and Bucky shakes his head.

‘When you were sure I wasn’t killing innocent bystanders,’ Bucky finishes for him.

‘Well,’ Sam exaggerates the word, ‘not exactly what I was going to say.’ 

Bucky shrugs his shoulder, and the car drops back into silence that’s only broken when he hits the indicator to finally turn into the airport lot. They’re fully parked, doors open and ready to go, when Bucky stops still.

‘C’mon,’ Sam says, voice light and almost challenging. ‘Lets go get your boy.’

-

Steve, when Bucky sees him, looks mildly similar to how he did on the helicarrier that last time, before everything went to hell - like he hasn’t slept in two days and is worried his heart is about to be ripped out.

Bucky can sympathise.

He wavers when Steve first steps out, exiting with the First Class passengers - ‘the only ticket left according to Tony Stark,’ Sam explained with an eye-roll, like he doubted that had actually been the case - but then Sam’s hand is on his right arm, is _touching_ him, and it bolsters him.

The airport is tiny, barely more than a tin shed - which is lucky, since it means Bucky doesn’t have to go through security to get to Arrivals - and only slightly bigger than the Port Douglas marina terminal, so the distance between where Sam and he are waiting for the passengers to deplane and find their baggage is barely ten meters.

‘Steve,’ he says, the word bursting from his mouth, and Steve’s head whips around to look directly at them. He stops midstep, almost stumbling, and then he’s _running_ , banging into other passengers until they realise they have to get out of the way or be mowed down, and he’s within touching distance when he skids to a sudden stop.

‘Bucky.’

Bucky swallows, every muscle in his body gone tight, and he nods shortly. He’s leaning away, he realises after a slow molasses moment, like his body is trying to run when his feet won’t move.

They stare at each other for long moments, not moving, eyes caught locked together. The moment stretches, yawning across agonising seconds. Bucky wants to reach out, wants to run away, wants to disappear and be here all at the same time.

Steve’s eyes are very blue.

‘Hey,’ Sam gently says. ‘How ‘bout we get Steve’s bags from the carousel.’

Bucky nods shortly, and then, with a hurried word about getting the car to pull up by the terminal door, he flees.

The steering wheel is a perfect thing to punch when he has himself slid into the driver’s seat, frustration and anger winding inside him like a snake, like something he’d forgotten during these past few years of being alone but _safe_. The glass is as sharp as it had been before, cutting deep in wounds that have been open for decades, unhealing in frozen sleep.

It hurts, and he doesn’t know if he can actually do this, but Steve is _here_ , and it’s time, he realises. It’s been two years and now it’s time. 

-

The drive back toward Bucky’s home is muted, even loading Steve’s bags into the car and setting Sam in the backseat (behind Steve) and Steve in the passenger side was a quietly negotiated affair, and Bucky is tense as he takes the familiar turns.

‘I’ll have to set up the couch,’ he says finally when they’re a street away, ‘Sam’s in the guest bed, but you can take mine, Steve.’

‘I-’ Steve starts, ‘no, Buck, I can take the couch.’

Bucky looks over at him, a severe glance that he perfected in 1930s New York, and Steve’s reaction is reflexive, well trodden. ‘ _Buck_. I’m sure the couch is great. I’ve slept on worse.’

‘Me too, pal,’ Bucky growls, but Sam just kicks at Steve’s seat. 

‘Yeah, yeah, we’ve all slept on the goddamn ground, you two aren’t the only soldiers in the car. How about we take turns in the guest bed, Steve, huh? I took it last night, you can have tonight. Let’s not take advantage of our host, ‘cause apparently he overtips.’

Bucky glares into the rear-view mirror, but Sam looks unabashed. Steve frowns. ‘You… overtip?’

Bucky sighs, and pulls into the drive. ‘Hydra money,’ he repeats his reasoning from earlier. ‘Five dollars for a fucking cup of coffee, even if it is Australian money. Why the hell not put a fifty in the jar and be damned.’

Steve’s laugh is like ambrosia when it comes, soothing on the live wires that are Bucky’s nerves. ‘Hey, me too buddy.’

Bucky stops the car, slotting the gearstick into park and the handbrake on, his left arm whirring with the movement. He raises an eyebrow, but Steve doesn’t elaborate.

‘Yeah,’ Sam says unbidden from the backseat. ‘He leaves c-notes under singles on diner tabletops.’

‘Never thought I’d have so many of them in my pocket,’ Steve says unabashed, obviously used to this kind of ribbing, ‘figure I may as well leave them lying around.’

Sam shoves the groceries into Bucky’s arms when they finally make it out of the car, Bucky staring at him as he receives the bags. It makes sense, Sam and Steve both have luggage to take inside, but the sudden movement and the teasing manner it was performed in is jarring. 

Somewhere behind the house a bush stone-curlew screams, and Steve’s body goes rigid.

‘Yeah,’ Bucky says with a sigh, balancing the groceries in his left hand while he digs around in his pocket for his house-key. ‘Sound like humans screaming, don’t they?’

‘That… wasn’t a person?’ Steve asks as the door clicks open and Sam shakes his head. 

‘Yeah man, I had to google it my first night here. These birds, they sound exactly like a person. That’s just the noise they make.’

‘You get used to it,’ Bucky says, and doesn’t explain that he means he got numbed to the cries of humans full decades ago.

-

Steve begs off for a nap half an hour after they arrive, a full twenty minutes of awkward coffee drinking at the kitchen counter following ten minutes of settling into the house. 

As soon as he’s left the room, Bucky sets his forehead down on the counter in defeat.

‘Hey,’ Sam’s voice is back to soothing, snapping from the teasing tones of earlier and slotting into careful. ‘You’re doing great.’


	2. Here with Company

The awkwardness gets worse as the afternoon progresses. Bucky settles in to cook everyone dinner, pulling frozen mince from the freezer and making patties to grill for hamburgers. Sam chops tomato and even opens tins of sliced pineapple and beetroot at Bucky’s insistence. 

Steve takes over the barbeque after Bucky heats it up, outside on the verandah in the cooling evening air. He only looks quizzically at Bucky once when Bucky shows him the eggs, but Bucky just shrugs. ‘That’s how Australians make burgers.’

Even Sam has to vocally admit, once he’s finished his full burger with ‘the lot’ - cheese and lettuce, tomato, ketchup, avocado, pineapple, beetroot, egg, and patty - that it’s not bad. When Bucky pulls out the papaya at the end, he makes a groaning noise of discomfort. 

‘No,’ he protests. ‘I can’t eat any more food.’

‘Fine,’ Bucky nods. ‘This is for me and Steve anyway. You can have this.’

He sets the papaya down on the glass outdoor coffee table, and pulls a rambutan from one pocket and a knife from a sheath along his left thigh. With one quick spinning motion he has a thin line cut around the outside and the fruit is flying toward Sam’s chest.

Sam’s hand goes up too late to catch the spiky red projectile, and it bounces off his chest and onto his messy plate. Ketchup gets smeared on one of the tendrils, and he touches at it tentatively. Bucky ignores him, and turns his attention back to the papaya, only glancing out to the periphery as Sam pops one half of the rambutan open to expose the fruit inside.

‘Huh,’ Sam says, staring at the gelatinous orb. ‘Weird.’

‘Looks like lychee,’ Steve notes, and Bucky nods a little, cutting the papaya in two and squeezing a little bit of lime on each half.

‘Tastes better,’ Bucky says. ‘Sharper.’

‘You always liked sweet things,’ Steve notes, a little tentatively, and Bucky laughs. 

‘Oh, I definitely still do,’ he offers half of the papaya to Steve. ‘You should try the coconut lattes.’

Sam makes a muffled noise of agreement from around the rambutan in his mouth.

Bucky’s lips twitch and he tuts. ‘Mind the seed,’ he comments a little drily as Sam pulls the fruit away from his mouth, amber pip obviously scored and battered.

‘Gross,’ Sam twists his lips. ‘Tastes like bark.’

Bucky takes a bite of papaya, which definitely doesn’t taste like bark, and stares out across the street to the line of Queenslanders opposite decorated in blue and white and yellow, at the peeling paint and battered slats laying bare over the windows.

‘So,’ Sam says after a few moments of silence. ‘You want to do something tonight, or-’

‘We could go into the night markets,’ Bucky offers. ‘If you want something to do. There are nightclubs, but… it’s not really my scene.’ Steve makes a noise of agreement, and Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. He’s laughed more in the last two days than he has… in a long time, actually. Too long.

‘Colour me shocked,’ Sam says. ‘The hundred-year-old white men don’t want to go clubbing. And here I thought you were going to help me pick up. What kind of wingman are you, Barnes?’

‘A shitty one,’ Steve grumbles, and Bucky’s has to hold back a smile, thinking of a million blown dates when he only had eyes for Steve and wanted just one girl, any girl, to feel the same way.

‘Tore off one of yours, Sam,’ Bucky says, a little apologetically. ‘Thought that made it clear.’

‘Hey, you aren’t wrong,’ Sam agrees, setting the rambutan shells and damaged seed down on his plate. ‘I should have known.’

‘Night markets sound nice,’ Steve agrees.

‘Great,’ Bucky says, gathering up the plates. ‘I want to go see some bats.’

-

It’s not like Bucky couldn’t see bats from at home, or during the day, or any time really, except for when he’s out on the reef, but it’s as good an excuse as any to lie on the lawn in the grassy park across from the night markets, staring up at the inky sky.

Bats fly across in droves, flitting from here and there, each one easily the size of Bucky’s forearm. They cut across the lights illuminating the park, and Bucky enjoys the way his eyes adapt to the change in light. It’s quiet, a few people wandering along the boardwalk here and there, but mostly people have left the esplanade itself for the day, heading indoors to the restaurants and resorts. 

Sam and Steve had gone into the markets, Steve leaving Bucky after only a few stuttering starts after Bucky made it very clear that he knew every inch of the markets and felt no need to go in there any time soon - it’s close, and the exits are hard to get too, too much risk of collateral damage, too- he doesn’t like it. He never has. It’s not like Rusty’s, with it’s high ceilings and multiple pathways. It’s closed in with walkways intended to make the tourists pass every glittering stall.

The bats make squeaking noises above him, and he lets his chest rise and fall with his breath as he lets the air pass around him. The humidity has dwindled for the most part as evening settles, but it’s still there, a constant presence that wraps around him. It’s comforting - there is no possibility of ice or frozen prisons. Ice is paradoxically dry, sapping all the moisture, while this heat is wet and enveloping. Reassuring.

‘Hey,’ Sam’s voice interrupts from a few meters away, letting Bucky know they’re coming. He sits up, crosses his legs in front of him. ‘Got you something.’ The object he hurls lands neatly in Bucky’s hand when he puts it up to catch. Three strands of beads are tied together with a thin white piece of thread. They’re shell bracelets, the kind the hippy locals make in the thousands to sell at markets and tourist stores, and Bucky stares at the jewellery in his hand. 

Sam settles himself down on the grass beside Bucky and holds out his hand. Bucky frowns at him, then hands the bracelets back. Maybe they weren’t a gift after all? But then Sam reaches out, telegraphing his movements, to take Bucky’s left wrist. 

It takes everything in Bucky not to pull back and he doesn’t stop frowning, as Sam pulls the elastic bracelets up and over his gloved hand to settle against where his pulse would beat, if it were there at all. ‘Now you’re a tourist, just like us.’

‘Just what I wanted,’ Bucky says drily, and Sam laughs that free laugh of his. There’s a shuffling sound, and Bucky looks up to see Steve standing over them, a cautious smile on his face. He’s holding a few little plastic bags of his own, and Bucky nods at them. ‘You done?’

‘Yeah,’ Steve agrees. ‘Got something for Natasha.’

Bucky nods again in acknowledgement, and then he pulls himself to his feet in one smooth movement. ‘I want gelati,’ he announces, striding off for Alpin Street.

Art by [magniloquentChanteuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magniloquentChanteuse/works)! 

-

They go to Kuranda the next day, taking the winding way up the mountain to the small settlement-come-tourist attraction. They drive, because Bucky abjectly refuses to get into a tiny cable-car suspended above the rainforest - Steve agrees quickly, face a little green despite Sam’s stories of jumping out of airplanes without parachutes - and neither of them particularly want to take the train. It’s a shame in some ways because they don’t get the opportunity to go Barron Falls Station in the dead center of the rainforest, but the Kennedy Highway leads them to the Skyrail’s mid-station and they get out to have a bit of a look around. 

Bucky makes them get tea and crepes once they’ve parked in the lot directly behind the Foodworks, and then illustrates all the attractions they can pay to see. Sam vetoes the poison house with a firm few words about seeing enough deadly things in the desert, but they do herd him into the birdhouse. Both Bucky and Steve end up making enough comparisons between him and each Australian curiosity that Sam stomps off into one of the other aviaries, leaving Bucky and Steve alone together.

A stray bush-stone curlew stares at them, and Bucky glares back at it, over the walk’s railing. ‘Bucky,’ Steve says.

‘Steve,’ Bucky says levelly.

‘I-’

Bucky sighs, then turns to look at Steve directly. ‘Hey pal,’ Bucky says, his heart hammering, hands tight against his sides. ‘It’s-’

‘I’m sorry,’ Steve bursts out, and Bucky stares at him.

‘You’re sorry?’ Bucky exclaims, raising his right hand in exasperation. ‘I put three slugs in you, and you’re sorry?’

‘Well in your defense you could have shot me in the head.’

‘Oh,’ Bucky laughs weakly, his head spinning. ‘Of course. Three to the gut is nothing, then.’

Steve shrugs. ‘I broke your shoulder.’

Bucky shakes his head. ‘Dislocated.’ He turns back to the railing. A bright parrot stares down at them from an overhead bough. 

‘I’m sorry for not catching you,’ the words rush out in a stream, and Bucky has to pause a moment to parse them properly.

‘Jesus Christ, Steve. It’s been seventy years and you’re clutching to guilt over something that was completely out of your control?’ Bucky snorts. ‘Of course you are. The whole world goes to war and Steve Rogers feels guilty because he can’t throw himself on a grenade to die in basic training.’

‘It was a dummy,’ Steve retorts, like that had ever gained him ground when they’d trekked this argument before. ‘And it hasn’t been seventy years for me.’

‘Yeah,’ Bucky breathes, looking up at the netting keeping the birds inside. ‘I know.’ He taps at the railing once, then takes a deep breath in. ‘C’mon, we should probably go before Sam gets mauled by a cassowary. They eat smaller birds like him.’

-

They go to the butterfly house, and Steve watches the scientists inside gently collect eggs to put aside in their own little houses. Sam is more interested in the giant moths, while Bucky just likes standing by the small little water feature as butterflies flit around here and there, settling on the brightly coloured clothes some tourists are wearing.

He freezes when one settles on his nose, going cross-eyed to stare at the blue ulysses butterfly that’s landed there, holding his breath and standing exactly still until it picks up its wings and flutters away.

‘One for the photo album,’ Sam says, breaking Bucky out of his frozen rigor. 

‘You took a photo?’ Bucky snaps at him. ‘Your phone- give me-’ he reaches out, but Sam dances the phone out of his reach. 

‘Relax,’ Sam says gently. ‘It’s completely locked down. Tony Stark is even more paranoid than you are.’

‘I doubt that,’ Bucky mutters, but relents - he can get the phone from Sam when he’s distracted. Not for nothing is he a decent pickpocket.

Bucky begs out of the koala gardens early - after a brief but fulfilling stare-off with a grumpy looking elderly koala - and settles himself in to look at the Indigenous art inside the Doongal gallery. The ship’s prow is reassuring as he passes under it to get inside, eyes drinking in the art, paintings and carefully adorned didgeridoos.

Steve finds him there, staring up at at a giant feathery bush medicine painting. ‘Wow,’ he comments as he comes in to stand beside Bucky.

‘Yeah,’ Bucky agrees, lost in the black that meanders across in streams. 

‘Uh,’ Steve starts. ‘We were-’

‘Time to go?’

‘Yeah.’ 

Bucky takes another look up at the painting, and with a brief mad thought collects a business card from the lady at the shop’s counter. The tacky art in the sharehouse needs to be replaced.

-

That night Bucky sits outside on the verandah, cup of coffee in one hand, and stares at the stars. They’re bright here, almost as bright as in the mid-West of America, lying in wait for a convoy and staring at the horizon. 

‘Buck,’ Steve says, and Bucky flinches a little, turns his head to look at where Steve stands in the doorway. 

‘Join me?’ Bucky asks, a little hesitantly, and Steve leaps at the chance, pulling up one of the rickety folding chairs as close to Bucky as possible. The wooden arms of the chairs scrape against each other, rasping in the quiet evening air.

‘I love you,’ Steve says into the dark, eyes pulled away from Bucky. The words slam into Bucky, lodging deep in his throat and choking him. ‘That’s never changed. I just-’

Bucky holds his breath, holds it tight in case this is a mirage, like something that can be snatched away. 

‘I want you to know that. I wanted to say it, in case you somehow thought that had changed. I love you and I always have.’

The night is silent around them, the creaking of the chairs and their soft breathing the only noises. Even the bush stone-curlews have gone quiet. 

‘I-’ Steve tries to interrupt the empty space, but Bucky shakes his head.

‘Me too. Of course I love you,’ he looks to the side, to Steve. ‘Nothing’s changed, Steve. I love you just as much as I always did, in that old tenement we had, in your bedroll in Europe. It never changed, even if-’ he swallows, tries to wrench his mind away from horror. ‘Even if they took it from me, it still lived, somewhere. It-’

He turns back to the street, a few houses still lit up with activity. ‘It was the first thing that came back to me.’

The words are broken when they come next. ‘Then why did you run?’

It’s like a punch to the solar plexus; it takes his wind away.

‘Because,’ he says with the ghost of breath he still retains, ‘I was scared you’d only see the monster.’

‘Bucky no,’ Steve’s hand is on Bucky’s arm before he can pull it away. ‘I would have died for you, even if all that remained was what Hydra made you into.’

Tears are pooling into Bucky’s eyes, blurring his vision. He hasn’t cried in sixty years - not since they used the whip that last time to try and coerce him to their side, not even those times he was close to the edge of remembering and the halo came down over his head - and god damn Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson for bringing his dead corpse fully back to life.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, into the air. ‘I was- God Steve, I was so scared of losing you.’

‘Hey,’ Steve says, hand gripping tighter on his forearm. ‘I’m here.’

-

Bucky hasn’t been to Paronella Park, so he isn’t sure about it when he suggests the trip to Steve and Sam. It sounds like excess, for a Spaniard to build a castle during the great depression, but when they get there it’s nothing like he’d expected from the tourist whispers. The buildings, for all that they were built while Bucky and Steve were in their teens, look like they were built in a whole other era, and Bucky is fascinated by the idea of one man building a hydro-electric generator in the middle of nowhere from a waterfall, like some kind of bush Howard Stark.

It’s clear that Steve’s favourite part is the dance hall movie theatre. His eyes rake over it like he can see it as it probably once was, full with flashes of colour as men and women danced across the floor, the stage covered and fluttering with banners as a band played. ‘They had a disco ball,’ Sam announces, as he stands, hands on hips, in the center of the ruin. ‘In the goddamn 30s.’

‘Dancing wasn’t invented in the 60s,’ Steve chides, and Bucky laughs. 

‘Like you’d know anything about dancing.’ 

Steve rolls his eyes, and it takes everything within Bucky not to reach out, to grab him and set a hand on his waist, to take him for a spin around the ruined dance hall.

After all, given last night why should he hesitate? Why not take that leap?

But then the moment is gone, Steve stepping to the side and out of the hall while Bucky stands and stares, watching him walk away.

-

‘It’s perfect diving weather tomorrow,’ Bucky announces after looking up the meteorological report on the web a few days later. ‘We could take a boat out.’

Sam looks surprised, for some reason, as if he wasn’t the one to confront Bucky in that marina. ‘What, to Green Island?’

Bucky pulls a face. ‘I guess, if that’s what you want. I was thinking the outer reef. It’s nicer. Steve will take us out if I ask to join.’

Steve looks confused, and Bucky laughs. ‘My skipper’s name is Steve. Did Sam tell you I have a job? I mean, James Buchanan does, but I get paid for it, so-’ 

‘You take tours out to the Great Barrier Reef, right?’

‘Yeah,’ Bucky agrees, shutting his laptop up and setting it aside. ‘Low Isles and the outer reef. I don’t have to work until next week, but he’ll probably have room for us to jump on for the tour tomorrow.’

‘I… don’t know how to dive.’

Bucky waves a hand. ‘There are plenty of spare snorkel kits in the boat. Maybe even one that’ll fit over that nose,’ he flicks air in Steve’s direction, and watches with delight as Steve’s face lights up.

‘And you aren’t concerned about your skipper putting one and two together when Sam Wilson and James Buchanan go out on a tour with their friend Captain America?’

‘No one is going to recognise Steve,’ Bucky laughs. ‘Haven’t you noticed? No one knows who he is here. No one is thinking oh, of course, Captain America, here in this butterfly house in effin’ Q.’ He lets the letters out the way some locals say it, ‘FNQ’ like he’s swearing. 

Steve shrugs. It’s true, they’ve barely had a second glance. ‘Besides, I’ve kept an eye on news. No one put Bucky Barnes together with the Winter Soldier. I mean, Captain America’s dead best buddy, working for Hydra? That’s ridiculous.’

‘I guess,’ Sam hedges. ‘I just thought you’d be a bit more careful.’

Bucky sighs, a little offended. ‘I am, it’s not like I’m taking photos of me with butterflies on my nose and sending it to one of the world’s best skilled assassins and spies.’ He looks reproachfully at the phone in Sam’s hand, the one he’d procured only hours after the butterfly incident, only to find that “Natalia Rushman” had taken receipt of the photo over a messenger app. ‘But you know that Australians have no idea who I am, right? No one here took American History, they were too busy learning about the ANZACs. You hear about Tobruk or Kokoda?’

Sam nods slowly, ‘a bit- I knew one or two Australians in the service whose grandfathers fought in the war.’ 

Steve just looks confused, and Bucky points at him. ‘Exactly- that’s what they’d look like if you brought up Bucky Barnes. No one here looks at me and thinks legendary assassin or dead war hero, they think reclusive weirdo who wears full sleeves and gloves in hundred degree heat.’

He gets up to collect one of the mangos from beside the sink, carrying it over to the kitchen counter and cutting it carefully in three around the seed. ‘But hey, if you’re scared of sharks you don’t have to come,’ he looks up with challenge at Sam. 

‘Oh hell no, you’re not baiting me Barnes. I’m not scared of sharks, not with Captain America and the Winter Soldier here to punch them in the nose for me.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ Bucky says cheerfully, scoring the mango cheek so he can flip it inside out.

-

Skipper Steve insists that Bucky not work the trip - apparently ‘Steve Rogers’ and ‘Sam Wilson’ is enough to draw his attention but he seems completely unaware of Bucky’s real connection to them - and Bucky relents after making sure they’re paying full fare for the experience. 

The boat has maybe forty people onboard, not packed out like some of the bigger outer reef boats, and although there’s plenty of chatter and the patter of small feet, it’s a relatively calm experience. Sam settles on the roof in a deck chair with an audiobook cued up on his cellphone, and Steve joins Bucky on the prow as he stands there, loose hair flicking in his eyes. 

‘So… you like boats, huh?’

Bucky snorts, and turns to look at him. ‘I’m ambivalent to boats. You remember the trip from the US to Europe? Jesus.’

Steve shrugs, ‘wasn’t so bad for me. We had cabins and the USO girls were nice.’

‘Well lucky you,’ Bucky drawls, ‘I forget sometimes how it started out.’

They’re quiet for a moment, then Steve prompts, ‘so why do you sail?’

Bucky closes his eyes against the wind coming up over the bow. ‘I love diving,’ he admits. ‘It’s perfect, Steve, under all that water. It’s cloying, sure, but it aint cold, it’s eighty fucking degrees in there. The further down you go it gets colder and colder but I always know that just when I get back to the surface it’ll be light and warm. I love the reef, even if the idiots on this planet are damned set on destroying it. It’s beautiful.’

There’s a shriek from the side and both Bucky and Steve stiffen, but it only takes a few moments to ascertain the origin of the cry, and everyone’s rushing to the port side of the boat. 

‘Whale,’ a teenage girl yells, voice twanging with an American accent. ‘Oh my god, it’s a freaking whale!’

Steve stares out to where she’s pointing, and Bucky follows suit, watching as the large object under the water breaches and spouts before ducking down again, whole giant body moving in one fluid motion, before its tail flicks up to the surface. ‘Holy shit,’ Steve breathes, and Bucky smiles, warmth hitting him from above, and the golden glow of Steve burning at him from beside. ‘Would ya look at that.’

-

They hit their first dive spot at midday, and Bucky gets fully kitted out, dive belt around his waist and hair pulled back, wanting to go down properly, to still the rushing noises that have plagued him since Sam first approached him at the marina. He makes sure Sam and Steve are cared for - Sam wants a wetsuit because he read something about stingers and a guy named Steve Irwin, Bucky waves it off with an irritated hand gesture - and then he’s pushing off to drop into the ocean. 

The water above him glitters and dances as the sun rays pierce through it, warped with the many particles above and around him, and he takes a deep breath from the tank, and settles his mind. It’s quiet, and he can see the world around him as it really is. Somehow the distortion of water makes things clearer, makes things simpler and safer. No firearms allowed below, just his reef knives and the flippers on his feet. No one chasing him.

It’s safe.

-

He feels fully refreshed by the time he comes back up. The session is drawing to a close and the other divers are coming back as well. He can see Steve and Sam out on the higher ridges of the reef, snorkels sparkling where the light hits the wet breathing apparatus. They’ll have to come in soon too. 

Lunch is served as soon as everyone finishes drying off from their dive, and Bucky steals a plate of food away to the top deck, pulling the glove from his right hand so he can pick at the finger food provided. 

‘Hey,’ Steve says once he joins him. Bucky looks up, smiles at the way Steve’s hair is sticking up in all directions, at the mask imprints left on his face. He looks good enough to kiss. 

‘Hey,’ he returns, turning his gaze back to his food. ‘How was it?’

‘Bucky,’ Steve’s voice is reverent. ‘It was amazing.’

Bucky grins down at his food, remembering the first time he saw the reef up close, in all its beautiful glory. 

‘There’s only one thing more beautiful in this entire ocean.’

Bucky raises an eyebrow and looks back up at him, and then Steve’s pushing nearer and taking a kiss, pressing close and hungry. He tastes like seawater and the cucumber from off his plate, and the heat around those flavours is perfect and sweet.

‘Steve,’ he says into Steve’s mouth, and an inquiring noise vibrates back. ‘I don’t know how-’

Steve pulls back fully then, looks back at him with a furrowed brow. ‘How what, Buck?’

‘I don’t know if… I don’t like being touched,’ he says in a rush. ‘Not… this is fine,’ he reassures when Steve looks horrified at his actions. ‘I just-’

‘No, of course,’ Steve says. ‘Bodily autonomy, I-’

Bucky laughs, of course Steve would have words for things his brain can only think about with hollow dread. ‘It’s a lot,’ he agrees. ‘This is nice, I just- I don’t want you to get the wrong idea if I pull away. I-’ he looks away, can’t remain, locked in Steve’s achingly caring expression. ‘I’m sorry.’

For their entire lives, Bucky had been tactile. He knows that, knows it with every aborted motion and each fervent desire to reach out. But the idea hurts twice, once because he’s terrified of what he could do to another, twice because he’s scared of what they could do to him.

‘Don’t be sorry,’ Steve says gently. ‘This is just what you need. It’s okay to have what you need.’

There’s a soft snort from behind them, and both of them snap their heads around to look at Sam, who holds up the hand not carrying a plate. 

‘Oh no, like the man says. If only he took his own advice the world would be golden.’

Steve glares back at Sam, and Bucky laughs. 

‘Now you two don’t mind me,’ Sam says, settling down with his plate on his lap. ‘I’m class chaperone, just listening to my book.’

This is safe too, Bucky realises with a start, right hand curled around Steve’s forearm where it had somehow settled during the kiss. Here, out on the ocean, where the cell service is nonexistent, and the sea life flits below. Here, with Sam settled next to them, eyes closed under the sun, a slice of cucumber in his mouth and headphones in his ears.

Here, with Steve’s firebrand skin beneath his own bare hand. 

Here, with company.

Art by [magniloquentChanteuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magniloquentChanteuse/works)

**Author's Note:**

> All of the experiences in this story except anything to do with superheroing are possible, and all the places are real. There's even a skipper named Steve who goes out of Pt Douglas - he runs both an outer reef boat and a lower isles boat. You know, if you're into that sort of thing.
> 
> Sadly the Great Barrier Reef is dying because of climate change. So do your thing, lobby your governments. We're killing the planet and it's really starting to show.


End file.
